Dhampir

Chapter Ten

Rashed paced inside the cave below his warehouse in nearly panicked agitation. He'd raced back home to find Teesha and Ratboy-assuming that Ratboy would have run home as well-in order to move them someplace safe. The hunter had clearly seen his face, and many people in town knew him or knew of him as the owner of the warehouse. Sunrise was only moments away, and not only was Ratboy still missing, but he'd come back to find Teesha gone as well.

Had she gone looking for them or taken Ratboy to safety herself? Either act was certainly in the realm of Teesha's nature, but he couldn't be certain. Rashed moved toward the lower end of the cave, ready to head back out in search of Teesha, but he could sense the time. After long years in the night, any vampire was fully aware of the time and movement of the unseen sun. Any who failed to build such an awareness had long since burned to ash in the light of day. He knew the sun was cresting the horizon, and so he stopped short of leaving, turning to pace again, back and forth in the dark.

Where was Teesha?

He'd constructed their world carefully in a place where they could exist and thrive, feed judiciously and not worry over being discovered. It was home enough, but not without Teesha. Given time, he'd even hoped one day she might be free of that specter of a husband who clung to her in after-life. If she had gone to find Ratboy and himself and been burned in the daylight? Then Ratboy best have burned with her, or Rashed would tear him apart slowly, piece by piece, over long blood-starved years, never letting the filthy little wretch have his second death.

Damn the hunter to eternal torture as well. And what a fool he'd been himself.

Blood dripped openly from the gaping wound in Rashed's shoulder, and he could not easily move his left arm. His collarbone was cleanly broken. The shallow wound down his chest seeped. Each injury burned as if he'd been dowsed with some priest's blessed oils. The wounds weren't healing at all. He remembered Ratboy's own panic upon returning from the fight on the road with the hunter, and he knew he would have to feed soon in order to close his wounds.

He'd told Ratboy "no noise." Was that such a difficult concept to understand? In a matter of moments, he'd lost control of his fight with the hunter, and Ratboy had managed to alert the entire household. Now the hunter had confirmation that at least two undeads inhabited the town. The situation could hardly be worse.

And what in all the demons of the underworld had happened to him during the fight itself? The hunter's sword was magically endowed, if not magically created; that much was obvious. Where did she get it? Even a blade that had been warded or arcanely made to battle the undead should not have prevailed against his open attack-he was too strong and skilled. This was not arrogance or pride, but realism. He should have been able to beat her down, if not kill her outright, and been back out the window with the body in a matter of seconds. Instead of tiring, her strength and speed had grown to match his every attack.

And she had bitten him as if she were one of his own kind.

He'd felt the heat of her body, heard the pounding of her heart, and smelled living blood in her veins. She was not a vampire or some other Noble Dead. What had happened? And she had seen his face. It was only a matter of time and questions asked before the hunter connected him to the warehouse.

"We must leave here," he murmured.

"Rashed!" Teesha's voice called to him from the far side of the cave.

Relief flooded Rashed at the sound of her voice. But when he turned to see her in the dark, stumbling toward him, her face was filled with as much fear as he'd felt when he dove through the inn's window to save his own existence. He ran toward her, and anger returned quickly at what he saw.

Teesha held on to Ratboy's half-conscious form by the back of his shirt collar, dragging him into the cave. She looked exhausted. She'd never had the physical strength with which most Noble Dead were gifted. Perhaps it was a trade-off for her higher ability in thought and dreams that she used to hunt. Even he had sometimes felt the soothing calm wash through him at the sound of her lilting words.

"Someone threw garlic water all over Ratboy," she said. "I found him crawling by the sea, using wet sand to scour it off. I had to kill a peddler down by the shore to feed him quickly. Haste would not allow a more discreet hunt, and Ratboy needed a great deal of blood. I buried the body in the sand for now. We just got inside before sunrise, but he's badly hurt."

By way of answer, Rashed grabbed Ratboy by the front of his shirt and held him off the ground against the dirt wall of the cave. The little urchin's skin was still partially blackened and charred in places, cracking and split. It served him right for his recklessness.

"We're stuck in here now because of you," Rashed hissed. "That hunter may come during the day and burn this place around us."

Ratboy's eyes were mere slits, but hatred glowed out clearly.

"What a pity," he managed hoarsely.

"I told you 'no noise'! You forced me out before my work was finished." That was only partly true-but Ratboy and Teesha didn't need to know that.

"And who cut through your shoulder?" Ratboy opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. "Did she hurt you, my dear captain?"

Rashed dropped him and drew his fist back to strike.

Teesha grabbed it. The mere touch of her hands was enough to make him pause.

"This will not help us," she said. With light pressure he could have easily resisted, Teesha pulled Rashed's arm down. "We have to get every trap set and hide as deeply as possible."

Of course, she was correct. There was nowhere to run until nightfall. Now he was the one playing the fool and right in front of her. Ratboy's blundering had undone him in more ways than one. He quickly collected himself.

"Yes, you help Ratboy. I'll set the devices and join you below."

Her tiny fingers brushed his face as if glad to see him in charge again. "Let me tend your shoulder."

"No, it's all right. Just get deeper below."

Perhaps they would all survive until nightfall.

Leesil and Magiere waited in the common room for Constable Ellinwood to arrive. At sunrise, Leesil had accosted a passing boy on the street and paid the youth to run to the guardhouse with the news of Beth-rae's murder. His initial instinct had been to clean the mess up in the common room, but Magiere stopped him.

"All of this proves we were attacked," she said.

Everything was left where it had fallen the night before with two exceptions. Caleb had taken Beth-rae's body to the kitchen and had not come out again. And then there was Ratboy's thin-bladed dagger.

Leesil hadn't even remembered it until he'd stepped around to the back of the bar to put away the crossbow, and found it lying on the floor. He quietly picked up the blade out of Magiere's sight.

Ratboy must have used it to trip the latch on the common-room window. The blade was wide and unusually flat, making it thin enough to slip between shutters or into a doorjamb, and the width would provide strength when pushed against any metal hook or latching mechanism. Inspecting the blade, he found it well tended and sharpened, but with an odd shape to its tip. It wasn't overt, and perhaps anyone else wouldn't have noticed, but Leesil had slipped through enough windows in his life to know what he saw.

Near the tip, the edges were no longer straight, but indented slightly. Long use as a tool had worn down the metal and frequent resharpening had produced a slight inward curve in the edge on each side. Ratboy was not a common thief, whatever else he might be, but Leesil could see the beggar boy was practiced at unseen entry. A blade like this was a personal choice, sometimes specially made, and certainly a well-cared-for possession. And yet, Ratboy had obviously not entered the inn to steal anything, and his manner was not that of an assassin-the little creature might be cunning and stealthy to a point, but he had no finesse.

Leesil had serious doubts Ellinwood could even understand such things without them being pointed out blatantly and then explained. And he wasn't even sure how it connected to the more unusual details of last night. If necessary, he'd show the dagger, but for now he rucked it under the back of his shirt. Magiere might not agree with this action, but he would handle that if and when it came up. He stepped around the bar into the open room, surveying the ruins of broken tables and chairs, fresh scars in the bar top, and dried pools of blood.

Magiere's words made sense-everything needed to be left as it was to make Ellinwood believe what had happened, but he hated the thought of doing nothing. The bloodstained floor kept drawing his attention. Why hadn't he initially held his ground and reloaded the crossbow? Why hadn't he rushed the creature as soon as Beth-rae threw the garlic water? The scene played over and over in his mind as he examined every move he could have made differently. Scenarios taught long ago by his mother and father crept back into his conscious thoughts from places where he'd hidden them. He'd made so many mistakes, and now Caleb was a widower and little Rose had no grandmother.

Chap's chest was almost healed, which in itself seemed too much for Leesil to think about, in addition to everything else that made no sense in their lives of late. Magiere's facial wound looked days instead of hours old. Whenever Chap or Magiere fought these strange attackers, they healed with an unnatural quickness. Or had they always been quick to mend? It occurred to him that in their years together he'd never before been in such situations with either of them, so there was no way to be sure. He didn't want to talk about any of it, but how much were they going to tell the constable?

"Magiere?"

"What?"

"Last night… your teeth," he began. "Do you know what happened?"

She walked closer to him, her black hair still a tangled mess of long waves and strands around her face. Scant light that filtered in through the windows hit her from behind, and the highlights in her hair turned their usual red, almost a blood red, and that comparison made Leesil uneasy. Her expression was earnest, as if she wanted-had been waiting, even-for some reason or moment or encouragement to tell him something.

"I don't know. Not really," she answered. Her eyes closed tight and she shook her head slowly.

Leesil noted her jaw shift, perhaps as she checked her teeth with her tongue yet again for the return of what he'd seen there. Her voice dropped low, near a whisper, though there was no one else nearby to hear her.

"I was so angry, worse than I've ever felt in my life. I couldn't think of anything but killing him. I hated him so-"

A knock on the inn's door interrupted her. She frowned in a mix of frustration and distaste, letting out a sigh.

"That must be Ellinwood. Let's get this over with."

With a quick glance and nod to Magiere, Leesil went to open the door, but to his surprise it was not Constable Ellinwood on the other side but Brenden.

"What are you doing here?" Magiere demanded.

"I told him he could come by," Leesil interjected, having actually forgotten about it until this moment.

"I heard what happened," the blacksmith said sadly. "I came to help."

Leesil had never seen anyone with such vivid red hair as Brenden, and with his matching beard, he seemed like a broad head of fire in the doorway. His black leather vest was oddly clean for someone who worked with iron and horses all day. Magiere just looked at the blacksmith as if she honestly didn't care whether he stayed or not.

"Ellinwood's useless," Brenden went on in the same sad voice. "If you tell him what really happened, he'll bury the case and never discuss it unless you force him to. Nothing will be done."

"Fine," Magiere said, turning away. "Stay if you like, go if you like. We aren't expecting any assistance from the constable anyway. Beth-rae was murdered last night, and the law requires us to inform the authorities."

Leesil remained quiet through this exchange in the hope that Brenden and Magiere might actually speak to each other, see one another as individuals. The blacksmith was one of the few people in town they'd met so far who was willing to speak about anything related to the attack on the road or what had happened last night. The result of his presence wasn't all Leesil had hoped for, but at least Magiere hadn't ordered him off the premises. Leesil stepped back and urged him inside.

"I'll make us some tea," he said.

"How's Caleb?" Brenden asked, staring at the bloodstained floor by the bar.

"I don't know. We haven't seen him since just after…"

The tavern suddenly felt cold, and the half-elf busied himself by making a fire and boiling water for tea. He could have done it in the kitchen, but he didn't want to leave Magiere. And Caleb was in the kitchen with Beth-rae's body, which Leesil could not bring himself to look at right now.

Somehow the three of them managed to make small talk. Brenden seemed hesitant to question too much concerning the night's events, likely not wanting to wear out his welcome now that he'd regained some acceptance. Magiere avoided giving any complete answers to the few questions asked. Enough of that would be covered all over again once Ellinwood arrived. With Magiere running out of evasive answers and Brenden short on acceptable questions, the room became oppressively quiet until another knock sounded.

"That will be him," Magiere said with distaste. "Leesil, can you get the door?"

This time the visitor was indeed Constable Ellinwood, clearing his throat in place of a greeting and looking somewhat put upon in fulfilling his duty. His vast, colorful form filled the doorway like that of an emerald giant gone soft through years of idleness.

"I hear you had some trouble," he said, his tone that of someone wishing to take command, yet preferring to be somewhere else. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept well, and his fleshy jowls appeared even looser than usual.

"You could say that," Leesil answered coldly. He turned away without even a gesture for the constable to enter. "Beth-rae is dead. Some lunatic tore out her throat with his fingernails."

Ellinwood, entering behind him, sputtered at the bluntness of Leesil's statement. Then he spotted the dark stain on the floor at the bar's far end.

"Where's the body?"

"Caleb took her into the kitchen," Leesil answered. "I didn't have the heart to tell him no."

"Why don't you ask them what happened," Brenden said, his arms crossed, "before you start looking for 'clues' for something you know nothing about."

"What's he doing here?" Ellinwood demanded.

"I invited him," Leesil answered in a half-truth.

Up to this point, Magiere had drifted closer to the fireplace and simply stood by watching and listening. Now she turned away from all three men.

Leesil experienced a wave of pity followed by concern. He had many unanswered questions regarding Magiere, but those could wait until a better time. She was dealing with too much already in too short a space of time. They all were, for that matter. And as much as he wanted answers, he didn't want to see her pushed over the edge any further.

"You start, Leesil," she said softly. "Just tell him what you saw."

Leesil began recounting everything as clearly as possible. For the most part, it sounded like little more than a vicious thief interrupted during a botched robbery-except for the quarrel the beggar boy had pulled out of his own forehead. Strangely enough, Ellinwood did not react to this with more than a raised eyebrow. Then Leesil reached the part where Beth-rae ran in from the kitchen.

"She threw a bucket of water all over him, and he began to smoke."

"Smoke?" Ellinwood said, shifting his heavy weight to one foot. "What do you mean?"

"His skin turned black and began to smoke."

"Garlic water," Brenden interrupted. "It's poison to vampires."

The constable ignored him.

Leesil grew more suspicious. He still didn't accept the idea of vampires, and hadn't actually said or implied any such thing, yet the details were there. Ellinwood did not appear even slightly shocked, neither denying nor accepting Brenden's implied conclusion. Leesil held that thought to himself for the moment.

"Then what happened?" Ellinwood asked.

"He rushed her, struck her, tearing her throat with his fingernails, and breaking her neck," Leesil continued. "Then he escaped through the back door in the kitchen."

A few more questions and answers followed, all of a similar matter-of-fact and what-happened-next nature, each of which led to no further real exchange of useful information. The constable was casual, almost bored, and always slow to ask his next question. Somewhere along the way, Leesil noted that Ellinwood had not asked about any motivation for the intrusion. The concept of burglary or theft had not even come up. Not that it should have, since it was obviously not a burglary, but the constable hadn't even tried to pass it off as such. When Leesil described the intruder, he did note that Ellinwood fidgeted slightly before resettling into complacency.

It was then Leesil decided he would keep the issue of the dagger to himself. Ellinwood's disinterest was obvious. He was playing his role and giving lip service to his duties-and he was hiding something. Why this was so, Leesil couldn't yet tell, but the dagger might be more useful in his possession than handed over to be stowed away and forgotten.

The constable turned to Magiere.

"And while all this was going on, you were attacked upstairs?" he asked.

"Yes," she managed to answer. She turned and looked directly at Ellinwood as she spoke. "He was very tall and striking, with dark hair close cropped and nearly clear eyes with a tint of blue. He was dressed as a nobleman in a deep blue tunic, cloak, and high boots. And he carried a long sword, which he used as if trained and experienced in combat."

Magiere continued, trying hard to remember more details of her assailant. His expressions and manner of superiority, the way he moved, the way he spoke. Slowly, the constable appeared less bored. His complexion shifted and began turning paler, until his flesh had a sickly white cast to it. Brenden, however, added more wrinkles to his brow, eyes narrowing as if he were trying to focus Magiere's description in his mind and recognition was beginning to settle upon him.

Leesil began to see that Magiere, as well, had caught the fact that Ellinwood had lost his disinterest. And now he looked openly nervous. Magiere grew more intent, turning to questions instead of answers.

"How many men in this town can that describe?" she asked. "I don't know why that didn't occur to me until now. You must know everyone here, yes? This one was dressed too well for a common ruffian looking for some quick coins in his pocket."

"He owns Miiska's largest warehouse," Brenden answered softly. "I don't know his name, but I've seen-"

"Quiet!" Ellinwood shouted at the blacksmith in a voice that squeaked with strain, surprising them all. "Keep your foolish conclusions to yourself. There are hundreds of tall, dark-haired men in this town and new ones come in port every day."

"Hundreds?" Leesil asked, mockingly.

Ellinwood ignored the goad, focusing on Brenden.

"I'll not accuse a respected businessman just to please you!"

"You're a coward," Brenden said, more in resignation than anger. "I can't believe what a coward you are."

"Quiet, both of you!" Magiere snapped, looking more like the caustic tiger Leesil remembered as she stepped between the constable and the blacksmith. Ellinwood backed away, scowling, trying to maintain an air of righteous indignation, but Magiere didn't even notice.

"I'm not reporting this because I expect or desire any help," she said to him. "I'm only behaving like a law-abiding citizen. If you want no part of this, you're free to go back to your guardhouse or breakfast or whatever else you do with your mornings." She turned to Brenden. "And no one asked for your counsel, blacksmith."

Ellinwood made no move to continue his investigation, neither inspecting the room nor making any pretense to go survey the body or the second level of the inn. Leesil began to think it was likely that the constable didn't need to do any of those things. The repulsive man probably knew much more than anyone else in this room. Beating the truth out of him was somewhat tempting, but would only add to their troubles. At least for now.

The constable puffed his cheeks out, attempting to gain control of the situation.

"I'll have my men do a sweep of the town, looking for anyone matching the descriptions you've provided. You'll be informed if anything is discovered."

"Yes, you do that," Magiere said in dismissal.

After the constable left, the three remaining occupants in the room stood looking at each other.

"I seriously doubt we'll hear anything," Leesil said. "Or at least we won't be the first."

Brenden merely grunted in agreement.

Several tables lay in broken heaps around them, and Leesil remembered they would have to replace Magiere's bedroom door and window. For the time being, he would settle her in his own room, and then bed down himself on the bar or by the fireplace.

"It's not over. We have to hunt them down ourselves," Brenden said to Magiere. "You know that, don't you?"

Oh, by everything holy, was he mad? Annoyance, possibly more than annoyance, hit Leesil for the first time.

"Just leave that alone!" Leesil half shouted before controlling himself. "She's had enough already for one day."

"I know," Magiere answered in a whisper, ignoring Leesil's outburst. "I know."

Ratboy believed that vampires fell dormant during the day, like inverted plants or flowers. Of course, he kept this opinion to himself, and would never relate such a fanciful thought in front of Rashed or Teesha.

As the sun rose, he always collapsed into dreamless sleep. But not today. Today.

How long since he'd even considered a term with the word "day" in it? He could not remember. Lying in his coffin, in the dirt of his homeland, deep in the tunnels under the warehouse, he could not sleep. His body still burned from the garlic water, even though Teesha had fed him, and his spirit burned from Rashed's harsh words.

Would that arrogant sand-spawn ever take responsibility for his own mistakes? Ratboy doubted it. Every action, every decision Rashed made was motivated by his consuming love for Teesha. And what was so comical-so tragic-was that he'd never be able to acknowledge the force that drove him. He played the father and the protector. But he'd never admit anything so pathetic as love, even to himself. Especially to himself.

Not even for Parko.

In the darkness of his coffin, Ratboy allowed his mind to drift back to their journey from Corische's keep. Due to Rashed's foresight, the trip was not uncomfortable. Rashed packed a large wagon with their coffins, stacked two on two, each carefully covered by a canvas tarp. He also broke into Corische's private quarters and took plenty of money. Ratboy never asked how much, but that was part of Ratboy's past and current dilemma. He always left the details, the planning and the worrying to Rashed. He constantly walked a fine line between hating Rashed and depending on him.

One night on the open road, low growls reached their ears as the wagon approached an overgrown bend in the road. A moment later three half-starved wolves dashed out of the trees and attacked their horses.

Two more wolves leaped up from behind into the wagon, and Parko kicked one away on instinct. More shapes poured out of the forest, and Ratboy realized just how outnumbered they were. He wasn't exactly afraid of wolves, but famine could make these beasts formidable, and their numbers were growing before his eyes.

The horses screamed. He kicked the other wolf out of the wagon and looked around for a weapon. Then the attack stopped.

Teesha was holding the horses' reins, fighting to keep them from running. Rashed was standing in the driver's seat with his eyes closed. He appeared to be whispering, but as close as he was, Ratboy could not hear a sound coming from his lips.

Snarls faded, and the wolves pulled back. A few of them even whined.

One by one they slunk away into the trees.

"What did you do?" Ratboy asked.

Rashed shrugged it off. "One of my abilities. I don't use it often."

"You can control the minds of wolves?"

"And sand cats and other predators."

Ratboy could not control the minds of animal predators. He knew that all Noble Dead developed slightly different powers and abilities, but why did Rashed seem to have all the useful ones? It bothered him to depend so much on Rashed, yet he was forced to trust their leader, who always knew exactly what to do.

The crux of this dichotomy had occurred on the road nearly halfway to Miiska.

Before their undead existence began, Parko and Rashed were the closest of brothers. Ratboy learned this through snippets of memories that Rashed occasionally expressed. Parko had been a gentle creature, who needed the protection of his older brother. And again, although Rashed did not seem to recognize his own drives, Ratboy understood that the need to protect was built into Rashed's nature. However, once their lives as Noble Dead began, Parko was a completely different person, savage and often incoherent. He became more and more difficult to control.

Once they left Gдestev Keep, Rashed's thin hold on Parko's behavior grew even weaker. Their leader planned each night's travel carefully and often consulted several maps he carried. Usually they arrived well before sunrise at a town or village with an inn. Rashed would pay well for cellar rooms if they were available, and since he knew they could never unload the coffins without drawing attention, he simply had his little "family" all keep pouches of dirt with their belongings. Each of them would sleep with these pouches next to their bodies until nightfall, when their travels resumed. Rashed always told a similar story to the innkeepers about how they had traveled all night and needed quiet rest. Teesha would appear to be dainty and exhausted, and Parko and Ratboy played the servants. Although he would never admit it, Ratboy found safety in Rashed's planning and the way he handled both mortals and the mortal world so easily.

Yet something about Parko's wild manner was attractive as well. And Parko hated Rashed's rules that they sleep inside and only feed when absolutely necessary. He rebelled at every opportunity.

One day on the road, they were forced to sleep in an abandoned church. Parko had slipped out of the wagon unseen. Once his absence was discovered, Rashed halted the wagon immediately. He stepped out and glared through the dark, turning slowly, searching. He stopped with his focus directly down the road.

Usually only a master such as Corische could do this to locate a created minion. Perhaps because they had been siblings in life, Rashed could sense Parko's whereabouts. Apparently, his brother had traveled out ahead of them. They would stop at the next village, down the road, to see if he was there.

When they arrived, the village was in a state of hysteria. A small cluster of people was gathered around the open front door of the inn, a few armed men holding them back. Voices were loud and angry, and it was easy enough to overhear that the innkeeper and his wife had been found dead in their beds. Ratboy watched as a guard came running out of the inn and began vomiting in the gutter of the street.

There would be no welcome for strangers in this village, and Rashed did not even slow the wagon. Once out of sight of the village, he whipped the horses into speed. Daylight was coming.

Although the roadside shrine they found down a side road looked ancient, as if untended and unvisited for years, Rashed clearly did not like the tenuous state of their situation. He raged over the idea of Teesha sleeping somewhere so insecure. When Parko caught up with them just before sunrise, his face and hands were covered in blood, and he no longer cackled and smiled as usual.

Rashed was furious at his brother and actually shouted at him. Parko merely backed into a corner with his pouch of soil, his eyes unblinking as he glared at Rashed. Ratboy suspected Parko had acted from spite, sick of being restrained and forced to continually repress his natural drives and instincts. And Ratboy, as well, wondered what it would be like to let go, to revel in a kill as Parko had done. Parko was still glaring at his brother when Ratboy finally closed his eyes much later and tried to rest.

Teesha kept her own council where Rashed's brother was concerned, but Ratboy could feel tension building in the group. He himself felt torn. At times, he did feel Parko was too wild, but Teesha and Rashed were certainly too tame. Three nights after the inn incident, Rashed stopped the wagon at midnight near a small village so they could hunt. Teesha sat in the wagon for a little while, gazing at trails of smoke rising over the trees from the little huts, her expression wistful.

"Rashed, how far is it to the ocean?" she asked. "I'm so tired. Will we find our own home soon?"

Rashed was standing on the ground, strapping on his sword. He quickly climbed back in the wagon and sat beside her.

"We have a long way to travel yet, but we have the maps I took from the keep. Before we sleep in the morning, I'll show you where we are and where the ocean is." His voice was concerned and tender.

Suddenly Parko howled in rage.

"Home! Ocean!" he shouted. His black eyes turned toward Teesha. "You!" White flesh seemed stretched over his thin face, and his uncombed hair stood out in several directions. "No home," he said. "Hunt!"

Pain registered on Rashed's face. And it was not lost on Parko, who turned and ran into the forest.

Rashed looked at Ratboy. "Will you go with him? Make sure he doesn't do anything to endanger the rest of us?"

Their leader rarely asked Ratboy for anything. So, Ratboy nodded and slipped into the trees after Parko. Actually, it was a relief to be running through the woods after Parko, leaving Rashed and Teesha in their own private world.

Ratboy reached out with his mind and tried to locate Parko as Rashed had done, but he could sense nothing. Instead, he resorted to mundane methods of tracking. Parko was in such a fit he'd left a trail that was easy to follow. It wasn't long before Ratboy caught up with his charge behind a patch of small trees on the far side of the village. He crouched down beside Parko.

"You see something?" he asked.

"Blood," Parko answered.

Even at this late hour, a small band of teenage boys was sitting outside what appeared to be a stable. They were laughing and passing a jug among themselves. They had probably stolen some ale or whiskey and were feeling quite rebellious. The sight of them actually brought back memories of the "life" Ratboy had left far behind, long ago. He'd done the same thing in his youth often enough.

"No, Parko," he said. "There are too many, and they're out in the open. One of them would raise an alarm. We'll look elsewhere."

Parko turned to him.

"You are not Rashed," he said with surprising clarity. "We kill. We hunt. We fear no calls to alarm. We fear no boys. No men." He looked back at the drinking band of teenagers. "You should not be like Rashed. Drink with me."

Without another word, he darted from the treeline. Startled, Ratboy watched him move silently and swiftly along the stable's side. Uncertain, Ratboy followed him, until they stopped at the corner.

The boys were almost close enough to touch now. Ratboy could hear every word they were saying, mainly complaints about their fathers, interspersed with laughter and gulps of liquid. He could smell the contents of the jug-whiskey.

In a flash, Parko was gone, and then Ratboy heard laughter silenced as it turned to screams.

Hungry, excited, Ratboy stepped out from the corner of the stable to see three boys lying dead on the ground, their necks broken, and Parko drinking from the throat of a boy with dirty-blond hair. The boy was still alive and flailing his arms in terror.

A short, slightly pudgy boy with dark hair stood screaming. Why didn't he run? Ratboy felt free. He wasn't like Rashed. He was like Parko, and he grabbed the screaming boy and drove both fangs straight into his neck, closing his teeth over the plump throat until the boy was choked into silence. Fear and blood from his victim seeped into him in equal measures, and he felt euphoric, so alive.

Shouts from deeper voices began sounding down the street. Ratboy drank his fill and then dropped the body to the ground with a thud. He knew he should run. Common sense told him he should run, but he didn't.

Parko finished with the blond boy and laughed.

Instead of dropping the carcass, he began dancing, capering with it. Covered in blood, his black eyes wide, he looked completely mad, but Ratboy didn't care. He laughed as well.

Two grown men with wooden pitchforks came around the corner and halted in shock, then one jabbed his pronged tool at Ratboy. The man looked more frightened than fierce. Ratboy simply feinted around the pitchfork, and tore the man's throat open with his fingernails.

He watched with pleasure as realization, and then horror, dawned on the mortal's face and the pitchfork tumbled from the man's hand as he clutched his gaping wound. Ratboy heard a crack behind him and turned to see Parko dropping the second man's body to the ground.

Parko seemed to be in the mood for breaking necks.

Ratboy wanted to laugh aloud again. They were invincible, free. Why had they ever feared discovery from these mortals?

Then movement caught his eye. Rashed was standing one arm's length away in absolute disbelief. His mouth was even opened slightly.

Euphoria faded. Five dead boys and two men lay on the ground around them. Other villagers must be aware but hiding.

Rashed seemed to search for words. "What have you done?"

By way of answer, Parko hissed at him Like an animal. Rashed closed the distance between them in two steps and swung hard with his fist.

Ratboy had never seen Rashed hit his brother. He didn't think Rashed capable. As the fist connected with his jaw, Parko crumpled and dropped. Parko tried to rise up, and Rashed struck him again, so hard that his brother flew backward and smashed through the outer railing of the stable. Parko lay still and silent in straw and mud.

Rashed grabbed his brother's limp body by the leg, and jerked him out onto the road. Lifting Parko, he slung the unconscious form over his shoulder and glared at Ratboy.

"You come now."

Ratboy followed without speaking. He was actually frightened, not of Rashed, but what would happen next. When they reached the wagon, Rashed dropped Parko on the ground. Then he climbed into the wagon's back, cut Parko's coffin loose from the others, and shoved it out the back. It thumped and skidded to the ground as Parko began to stir.

Ratboy looked to Teesha, who could sometimes bring reason to such scenes, but she stood silently on the other side of the wagon, watching.

Rashed threw a pouch of money at his brother.

"I am finished with you. You will not travel with us farther. Go down the Feral Path, if that is what you want. Perhaps the mob that village forms will hunt you now instead of us."

He stepped over the front of the wagon onto its seat and picked up the horses' reins.

"Teesha, get in the wagon." Then he turned to Ratboy. "You have a choice. I know the careless abandon of this night was not your doing, but you gave in to him. You either come with us or stay with him. Choose now."

Parko hissed from his position on the ground, and Ratboy stared at Rashed.

He wasn't good at making his own decisions, and this was the most difficult one he'd ever faced. The idea of staying with Parko and following the Feral Path, slaughtering and drinking blood with no thought to rules, only the hunt-it pulled at him. Desire to throw off all sense of mortal trappings and become the full glory of a predator was difficult to resist.

But Rashed kept them safe and always knew what to do, and Teesha knew how to make a home. Ratboy wasn't ready to give these things up. Not yet. He was afraid to stay alone with Parko. The thought shamed him. He glanced once more at Parko's hissing, writhing form, and then he climbed up into the wagon to sit behind Teesha.

As they pulled away, he did not see Rashed look back once, and he alone watched Parko's pinprick eyes fade in the distance. And for two more nights, Rashed did not speak at all.

Lying in his coffin beneath the warehouse, Ratboy wondered about the wisdom of the choice he had made back then. He tried to stop thinking, to simply see nothing. After a while, he was finally able to fall dormant.